Anonymous
by fbeauchamphartz
Summary: Barry is all about the perks of being a superhero. But he begins to realize that being a superhero comes with a price. Never having a normal life. Never having love. Living his life alone. He's willing to pay it and hope for the best, but right now, he needs release in the worst way. A solution arises from an unlikely source. Barry takes it, but will he eventually regret it?
**Barry is all about the perks of being a superhero - the fantastic new powers, helping people, the adoring fans. But little by little he begins to realize that being a superhero comes with a hefty price. Never having a normal life. The possibility of never having love. Living his life alone. He's willing to pay it and hope for the best, but right now, he needs release in the worst way.**

 **A solution arises from an unlikely source.**

 **One night of body worship with an anonymous stranger, no strings attached.**

 **Barry takes it, but will he eventually regret it?**

 **(Set around the episode "Going Rogue", so there's some issues in here that have already been resolved, but weren't at the time the episode aired, so bear that in mind. :D)**

 **Warning for anonymous sex, bondage, first time bottom!Barry, and Dom/sub undertones.**

It's Barry's secret.

He's not going to let the rest of his team know. They can't know. In a way, it's too embarrassing to admit, but that's not the only reason. This is _his_ life. He's _The Flash_ , superhero of Central City, but as much as he belongs to that title and to the people he's sworn to protect, he's also Barry Allen, and Barry Allen wants a life, something all his own.

So he doesn't tell _a soul_.

Actually, one other person knows.

Oliver Queen.

But not because Barry asked. Oliver offered.

Oliver understands the downsides of being a hero - what it takes out of life, the sacrifices. He's lived with the loneliness, accepted it as his stalwart companion. He knows better than anyone that Barry won't have a normal life, even if he ever decides to hang up his red leather uniform and that golden lightning bolt.

Barry is aware, without having to be told, how deeply embedded The Flash is in the future – _his_ future. He can sense it within the Speed Force, though he doesn't exactly know how. But regardless, isn't that the way with most superheroes? A life of selflessness, the occasional accolade, but without a family, children…or love?

Barry would like to think he could end up in the minority, one of those rare superheroes who manages to get a happily ever after, but he doesn't see himself as the exception. He's coming to terms with that more and more. But that doesn't mean he doesn't need love…or, at least, the semblance of it. He craves intimacy - skin against his, lips to kiss, fingers scratching his scalp, winding in his hair, pulling. Lately, he wants it so badly, he has a difficult time concentrating. He's on edge, snapping at people for nothing – the cashier at Jitters, other CSIs at work, his team at S.T.A.R. Labs. He turns to training to relieve the stress, working on increasing his speed as a means to ignore those urges, but they're persistent, cropping up and getting in his way. His every nerve crackles with them, gathering in his stomach like a ball of lightning.

And it needs to be released.

Originally, Barry balked at the idea of seeing a _professional,_ but Oliver assured him that what he had in mind was nothing like that. The members of this club aren't sex workers; just privileged people who need a discreet, paparazzi-free way to blow off steam. Membership is limited to _the elite_ – the wealthy, CEO's, models, execs, socialites, foreign ambassadors, Hollywood stars. There was an application process, background checks, a thorough medical history - all of which Oliver's clout was able to help Barry through. They didn't want this one encounter to besmirch Barry's impeccable record with the Central City Police Department. Oliver even registered Barry under an alias - Nikola Tesla (Oliver's idea of a joke). After an applicant was approved, they got to spend a night of total body worship with an anonymous stranger in a room that's completely pitch black – like those trendy upscale eateries in Manhattan, where the waiters are blind.

Completely anonymous, no strings attached, and only for one night.

Barry appreciated Oliver's concern, but he didn't think he was _that_ desperate (and honestly, Oliver having a membership to a place like that was disturbing on multiple levels), until Barry realized that if he couldn't figure out a way to get past this obstacle that was impeding his speed, he'd have to explain to Dr. Wells exactly _why_ he couldn't make it over the breach.

With that in mind, Barry didn't see that he had anything to lose.

When Barry arrives at the…God, he doesn't like calling it a _bordello_ …a pretty, polite, but otherwise unimpressed receptionist checks him in. She has him put his keys, cell phone, wallet, and other personal belongings into a box with a timed lock, then slides that box into a safe behind her desk. She goes over the rules, which Oliver had already outlined with him during their initial conversation. She double-checks a few items from his personal profile, one namely that makes Barry's stomach clench.

 _Preferred partner gender_.

Barry had decided from the get-go that since this was a new frontier, he'd pull out the stops, defy the taboos, indulge his deepest fantasies.

He chose _male_.

It's a part of himself that he hasn't been ready to admit to in his everyday life, but here, where his identity doesn't matter, he decided to take a chance.

He is instructed to undress, shower thoroughly, and douche. The receptionist, who doesn't give Barry her name, informs him that there's a closet in the bathroom for his clothes, and that he should make sure they're secured before he showers since he will not touch them again until after the evening is over. He's not permitted to speak to anyone he encounters – not the other employees, and especially not his partner.

She reaches into her desk drawer and pulls out a rectangular box. Printed on it is the picture of a man with come-hither eyes, holding an obscenely large red bulb syringe. She uses the box to gesture to a far door.

"The instructions are inside the box," she explains in a blasé voice, holding it out to him. "Use it, relieve yourself, put it back in the box, and dispose of it in the trash _before_ you shower. During your shower, you will brush your teeth and shampoo your hair with the products provided. After your shower, you'll dry off thoroughly with the towel hanging over the rod. You will not apply any lotion or cologne. Then you will exit through the opposite door."

Barry takes the box. She flashes him a tight smile that tries too hard to hide the fact that she's judging him.

"Uh…thanks," he says.

She doesn't say he's welcome. She pulls out a magazine, opens to a random page, and pretends to read.

He takes the hint and walks away as she seems impatient to be rid of him. He looks at the box in his hands, wondering idly if the employees get to use the services here as a perk. Oliver said that doing this can be therapeutic. Maybe it's listed in their benefits package under _alternative medicine,_ like massages, high colonics, and Pilates classes.

Barry gets to shower in a _lit_ private bathroom, which resembles the upscale bathrooms at the Waldorf Astoria…or what he's seen of the hotel from pictures on the Internet. When he's done everything the receptionist said – hung up his clothes, douched (which was an adventure he's not thrilled about repeating any time in the future), showered, and dried - he opens the secondary door, opposite the first door that leads to the lobby. The minute he opens the door, he's slapped by what looks like a huge gaping hole of nothingness stretching out in front of him. He steps out, propelled by faith alone since he can't see the floor, into a hall so devoid of light, it feels almost like he's stepping into the unfathomable vastness of space. He closes the door behind him, and in an instant, the light from the bathroom gets sealed away, not a ray of it seeping through.

He immediately feels someone touch him. Hands wrap around his wrists and wordlessly urge him forward. Barry, with the distinct lack of a discernible world warping his senses, allows himself to be led by what he deduces are _two_ unseen handlers (who he can only imagine have been waiting outside the bathroom door the entire time since they reached out and grabbed him the second it shut) down a completely darkened hallway into an even darker room. The faceless entities help him into a pair of metal cuffs, chained to posts at his side (bedposts?), at a distance which forces him to keep his arms outstretched. His ankles are bound in similar metal cuffs, but with a bar in between, spreading his legs wide apart. He doesn't feel anything of his two assistants except their hands. Not a strand of hair brushes his skin, and they only touch his wrists and ankles. They must be wearing kidskin leather gloves, because their skin feels unnaturally supple.

Surely, these two people have to be able to see somehow.

Unless they're blind, like the waiters.

Or they're sworn to some oath of secrecy.

Barry feels like maybe he should have asked Oliver a lot more questions before he agreed to come here.

Bound and unable to move away from the posts or undo the cuffs by himself, the two handlers leave, the sound of their footsteps irregularly loud on the featureless floor. He hears the door open and shut, and a lock thrown. Then nothing. Quiet. His own breathing and the blood rushing through his ears.

Barry swallows the last of the moisture in his mouth. Suddenly, this doesn't seem like the best idea.

Barry reconsiders his choices. He could have talked his problem out with Dr. Wells, man-to-man. Dr. Wells must have gone through a period like this himself after he lost his wife. Maybe he would have had a better, less daunting, more legal solution. One more scientifically sound, more Barry's speed.

Extreme yoga.

Four-way chess.

Paintball, but with explosive rounds.

Racing trains, or rockets.

All viable options.

But telling Dr. Wells means that Cisco might find out…then Caitlin…then Joe…then Eddie…and Iris…

God, no. If Iris found out, Barry couldn't show his face.

Nope. Bound helpless in the dark. Definitely the only feasible option.

Locked in this room without light becomes extremely disorienting very quickly. Without a view of the outside, he has no concept of time. Barry jiggles his wrists to hear the clanging of the metal chain that attaches the cuffs to the posts. He tugs on them, testing their strength. They seem sturdy, meant to be yanked without the links popping from the chain. He turns his head to look around – not that it helps. Someone could be standing an inch in front of his face and Barry would never see them.

Barry has to remind himself that this is what he signed up for – willingly. He can think of a dozen reasons why he should call out for help and put a stop to this, and only one reason to stay. But that one reason is powerful enough to keep him calm and centered.

He trusts Oliver. Oliver wouldn't put him in danger, and he wouldn't set him up.

All that's left for Barry to do is wait for his _partner_ to come in and get started.

As time ticks by, Barry becomes afraid that he's been forgotten. No one's monitoring these rooms, as far as he knows. How the hell do they even run this place? It's located on the top floor of a commercial tower in the heart of Starling City. How did they get away with _that_? Did they need a permit to open it? He assumes the city doesn't hand out permits for places like this. What does their business license say they do here?

Blinking against darkness that his eyes won't adjust to, Barry wonders what this room looks like in the day time. The walls have to be painted black. What kind of paint do they use to absorb every speck of light like this? With the kind of money this place funnels in (Oliver fronted $15,000 just to get Barry's application into the queue), they can probably get their hands on that "alien tech" _void_ material. (Wouldn't Cisco love some of that?) Who cleans in here? They put the lights on then, right? As a CSI, Barry wonders how thoroughly they clean, and what with. How much DNA must be plastered on the walls, these cuffs, the floor beneath his bare feet…?

It makes him wish he'd been allowed to leave his socks on, or wear a pair of flip-flops.

A Speedster with athlete's foot is an irony he'd rather not contend with.

But if he's about to contract foot-fungus or a flesh-eating bacteria, he hopes, at the very least, that it came from a big name star, like Halle Berry or Robert Downey, Jr. He's tempted to come back with one of the UV lights from the crime lab next week and see if this place lights up like a Christmas tree.

A swarm of progressively ludicrous thoughts and questions skip through his brain, trying to help him pass the time, when he hears the door behind him open, and someone walk in. Barry shoots his head to the side to see if he can catch any glimpse of light, but there's nothing. Total darkness. The same as when he came in.

Barry's heart speeds to an inhuman pace, pounding in his ears, obscuring the sound of footsteps so that he doesn't know how close they've gotten to him. The person entering the room seems to be alone, and they appear to know where they're going, undeterred by the absolute dark. They don't fumble around, don't trip or stutter their steps. They stride up to Barry, reaching out strong hands and putting them on his shoulders, as if they could see his silhouette in front of them. Barry realizes, with a sinking feeling, that this person knows where they're going because they've been here before.

Probably many, many times.

Barry had fancied that the person he'd be paired up with might be like himself – new to this, and just as nervous as he is. But this might turn out better, having someone with knowledge guiding him through. Either way, at this point, there's no turning back.

Since small talk isn't allowed, his anonymous partner wastes no time. He runs the flats of his palms down Barry's body, starting at his shoulders, down the lines of his back, over his ass, and along the outsides of his thighs, traveling to his ankles, damp hair tickling Barry's skin as he does. Barry's head drops forward on his shoulders. It's been a long time since someone's touched him like this… _such_ a long time.

And _oh God_ …this man just came from the shower. Thinking about his partner preparing for him the same way Barry did proves to be a tremendous turn on. Barry feels a moan rise up his throat, and he bites his tongue to keep it from leaving his mouth.

Silence. Darkness and silence. Total anonymity. Those are the rules.

This man's hands are slightly rough but soothing, fluid in their movements, like liquid on Barry's skin – a sensual libation. He feels calmed by these touches, and a bit tipsy - warm and dizzy, abuzz from the blood evacuating his brain.

The man is meticulous – pausing at certain areas, retracing them with his fingertips. He's trying to get a picture of Barry, a luxury that Barry doesn't have, cuffed the way he is. The hands make the trip back up Barry's body, and when the man stands fully, he wraps his arms around Barry from the back, dragging his palms up Barry's front. Not aggressively, but unashamedly, he gropes between Barry's legs. His hands find Barry's cock and stops. He wraps the fingers of one hand around it, holds it, traces over veins and ridges, spending more time here than anywhere else. The man fits his own lengthy erection between Barry's ass cheeks and presses their bodies together – leg to leg, pelvis to rear, chest to back – so when Barry's head drops backward, it's resting on the man's shoulder.

The man puts a hand to Barry's neck. Barry tenses, almost vocally objects, but the man doesn't squeeze. He holds him possessively, placing a kiss on Barry's forehead and shaking his head, in a way that communicates the fact that he's not trying to hurt Barry, just that he wants Barry to keep his head there.

Barry nods, because he has no plans on moving.

That kiss – tender, feathery – has Barry's body thrumming, quivering like a telephone wire, pulsing with electricity.

The man's hand leaves Barry's cock and slides up his chest, exploring Barry's muscles – where his abs end, the cut of his pecs, the definition in his shoulders and arms. They venture across to his nipples – one dry finger at a time swirling around the pebbled flesh, causing Barry's breathing, already shallow, to hitch. The man brings his hand to Barry's mouth, pressing against his lips, and Barry's lower jaw drops open. The finger that dips inside, Barry bathes with his tongue, closing his lips around it and sucking, his cock throbbing when the man behind him holds his breath.

Those fingers, remarkably slender considering their strength, return to Barry's chest, slipping over his right nipple, circling torturously slow, and Barry, unable to utter a single syllable, rolls his head back and forth with the agony of it.

The hand around Barry's throat leaves and touches Barry's face, padding along his cheekbones, his eyebrows, his lips, his ears, threading through Barry's hair. Barry can feel the man's mouth, right beside his temple, but the man doesn't kiss him again.

Inside Barry's brain, he's begging him to.

When he's done, the man pulls away, stealing his support and his body heat, leaving Barry weak and aching. From where he stands, the man takes a single finger and scratches lightly over Barry's shoulder, forming a deliberate pattern of dips and swirls. As Barry focuses on it, he realizes it's a word.

 _Hot_.

Barry ducks his head and smiles. Without warning, the man's there, capturing that smile with his lips and kissing him. Hands cup Barry's face and the man steps in close, his cock sliding up against Barry's, the two sandwiched between them. He ruts against Barry in a lazy rhythm, just a tease while he kisses him over and over, keeping Barry on the verge of taking a breath and then stealing it from him, until Barry feels hot from crown to sole, and he can't think straight.

He feels the man smile, feels him run the tip of his nose against his skin, his chin, his cheek, his biceps pressed against his side as he embraces him, his hands resting on his back, and Barry tries his best to piece together a mental image of what this man might look like. But, eventually, he lets go of his need to know, along with his need to be, and opens himself up to the experience. Soon, there is no Barry. There is no heartbreak, no tragic backstory. He is, instead, a combination of every sensation this man can evoke within him. His concept of up and down becomes skewed, dream and reality blend. There are no physical barriers between them, no cuffs, no chains - only this man's body against his. This could be oblivion and Barry wouldn't care. Let it all end here. Tomorrow? There's no reason to think that far ahead.

The man kisses Barry's chin, down his neck, and Barry lets his head loll while this man has his way – kissing, caressing, leaving no inch of skin ignored. Several times, he sheathes Barry's cock in the confines of his mouth before traveling to other sensitive areas – his inner thigh, behind his knee, the knob of his ankle - always returning to Barry's erection to torment it, vacating it shortly after to simmer in a maddening _barely there_ state, where too much attention would push Barry beyond the breakers, pull him under, too far for him to return.

Barry just wishes he could return the favor, make this man wobble at the knees, make him burn with want for him.

Barry recalls a number of the questions on the application. He had to choose whether or not he wanted to be the one who was worshipped, or the one who did the worshipping. Barry had lingered on that question the longest, pondering why it had to be one or the other, but the answer was always clear in his mind. He deserved to be worshipped. Barry would never admit it out loud, would never tell anyone that this was how he felt, but after everything – the bullying, losing his mom and his dad, being struck by lightning, lying in a coma for nine months, gaining these incredible powers...but watching the woman he loves fall in love with someone else - Barry _deserved_ this.

Barry had been afraid that, chained up like this, especially with the spreader bar between his ankles, ensuring his legs couldn't close, he would feel like a toy, a plaything to be used, here for the enjoyment of some random guy. But he sees now he was mistaken. Sorely mistaken.

Barry hears the man shift on his knees, crawling behind him. Then a tongue, sinewy and wet, weeds its way past the crack of Barry's ass in search of his entrance. His knees sway. He keels backwards. The man grabs his hips to hold him upright and pushes in again, feeling free to part Barry's cheeks when Barry locks his knees, stabilizing himself.

Barry's never known this sensation, this gentle lapping at nerve-riddled flesh that makes his knees knock and his teeth grind to keep him from keening. No one's ever touched him there, he's never fingered himself. It wasn't because it seemed wrong; it just struck him as unhygienic and uncomfortable.

This is anything but.

His tongue takes long, leisurely licks over Barry's hole, then dips inside, opening Barry up, relaxing that outer ring of muscle, and it hits Barry at once what for.

If he could, he'd moan long and loud, "Oh _God!_ "

This tongue, massaging him in sinful ways, is equal parts exciting and relaxing, but thinking about his partner's cock - rock hard and thick, from what Barry could feel - replacing it…

Barry's stomach clenches again; this time, with a vengeance.

There's a break when the man's mouth leaves Barry's skin, and Barry hears the hurried tearing of a specific type of wrapper – a ripping he hasn't heard in a while but one he can definitely recognize.

The man returns, parts Barry's cheeks, and lines himself up with his entrance. Barry shivers, the chains clattering loudly, and the man stops. He scratches another word across Barry's shoulder.

 _Scared?_

He puts a hand to the back of Barry's head and cradles it, waiting for an answer.

Barry shakes his head. Barry's not scared. Nervous, but not scared. The man smiles, his lips pressed against Barry's shoulder so he can feel it.

 _Good,_ he writes. _Relax_.

Barry nods. He takes a few deep breaths. He wills his body to go limp, open up, and allow this man entry. He wants it. He knows he wants it. He wants it now, and with this person. Nothing could be more perfect than this moment.

Barry's body, on the other hand, doesn't entirely think so.

But the man behind him is in no hurry. He has a bottle of lube, which he either brought in with him or was given, along with the condom, by the handlers that led them inside. Barry hears it pop open, the undignified _squelch_ as the man squeezes out the fluid into the palm of his hand, and then a subtle click as he sets it aside.

These noises, insignificant in the world outside this room, are stepping stones for Barry. They show a progression, a countdown towards a pivotal moment.

There's pressure, a slick bluntness, and then a searing stretch. Barry's body rebels, limber muscles tensing, locking down. The man pulls back, then pushes forward. Back and then forward, and Barry hisses, each push bringing with it a fabulous spray of pain. It's not that the man didn't open him up. The head of his cock slips through Barry's entrance easily. But every movement after that, with Barry's body clamping down, the strength that comes with his speed rearing up to revolt, is excruciating.

Barry can't stay completely silent. He tries, holding on as if his life depends on it, but he can't. He doesn't groan. The sound he makes is more like a sustained growl, which he does with the air issuing out through his mouth and not vibrating his vocal cords, making it toneless.

The man pushes in until he's completely engulfed by Barry's body and holds him, arms clutching his chest from behind, resting his forehead against the base of his neck. Heavy puffs of breath ghost over Barry's back as the man restrains himself from moving any further. A deep breath in, a deep breath out. Barry counts them as they heat his skin, using them as a way to track the seconds going by.

A finger touches Barry's shoulder, this time trembling.

 _Okay?_ he writes.

Barry nods, hands balled into fists, wrists pulling against his cuffs, the metal biting in as he braces for the next sting, the next stab of pain. But once the man starts moving again, and Barry's body stops resisting, there is no pain. With lips on his neck and hands kneading his tired arms, the slide in and out of his body is effortless.

It's different.

It's fantastic.

The man fills him up, then lets him go, setting him afloat on a rising current of ecstasy.

Barry tugs the cuffs with every plunge, shaking the chains until they nearly shatter.

Barry never realized how important moaning is to the whole act of sex. Since he can't, he feels like there's something clawing inside that's caged, fighting to take over, withering with each denied cry, each stifled gasp. That should frustrate the hell out of him, but it doesn't. It's an exercise in control, especially with the Speed Force within him juddering, wanting to spread out to his limbs. But Barry can't let it. He has to contain it. He doesn't want to reveal himself to this stranger.

He doesn't want to accidentally hurt him.

The man drives him ruthlessly, hands that once roamed relenting to arms clinging around his chest. His mouth sucks at Barry's shoulders, occasionally gnawing, but not hard. A hand sneaks down to find his cock and grabs hold, stroking slowly, in insane opposition to his frantic pace. Barry pushes back and thrusts forward, needing more, but doing his best not to overwhelm him.

Not be The Flash, just be Barry, not matter how difficult it is to separate the two.

" _Yes_ ," the man grumbles, gravelly and raw, fueled by the snap of his body, as his hips begin to race. Barry bites his lower lip, bites it so hard it might actually have started bleeding. The sting of it is inconsequential, means less than nothing. He broke the rules. The man broke the rules. They're not supposed to speak, not that anyone is watching or listening. (Barry keeps saying that to himself, but he doesn't know for sure. There could be night vision cameras mounted in every corner of this place, and Barry wouldn't know.) Oliver led him to believe that the rules are more for emotional sanity than anything else. This is a no strings attached arrangement. One night of worship – nothing else. Having something to latch on to – a voice, a scent – are ways of identifying a partner in the real world.

A hopeless romantic who equates sex with love might find themselves heartbroken, searching the world a thousand times over for something that doesn't exist.

Barry is not that person; not now, anyway, with the responsibility he's been given roiling inside him, mixing with his blood, scrambling his DNA, constantly a reminder. Still, he can't discount the way his body feels – the way this man _makes_ his body feel – so he tucks the memory of that voice away and hides it in his mind.

It'll be another secret. He's been lining them up lately. No harm adding this one to the pile.

Barry cums over the man's fist, long ropes coating his abs, shooting to his chin. His partner slams into him erratically, fingers holding Barry's convulsing body steady by his hips, nails sinking into the flesh over the bone, then he goes completely still. With choked-off grunts, the man shudders behind Barry, their bodies locked together as both men continue to reel. He pulls out cautiously, removing the condom, tying it off and tossing it somewhere – apparently he knows where. There's a moment of bereavement, shame when Barry thinks his partner's just going to leave, but then there's a mouth on his chest, a tongue licking down to his stomach, and _oh dear God_! Barry thinks. _He's cleaning me off with his mouth!_

The man works his way up Barry's body, and when he stands, he holds Barry in his arms, which he seems fond of doing. Holding Barry tight, holding him close, burying his face in the crook of Barry's neck and hugging him like he doesn't want to let go. The man's panting mouth covers his, lips parting Barry's, tongue sweeping through, rubbing lightly over his hard palate, the taste of his own cum sending tingles throughout his body. Barry's arms tense, reflex causing them to try and hug him back, but he can't. Barry can't hold him, can't knead his muscles or card his fingers through his hair, and that becomes the only downside of the night.

The man steps away, but his body is reluctant to go. He detaches from Barry in a wave, with his forehead resting against Barry's the last to depart. He circles around, fingers grazing Barry's arm from his shoulder to his hand, linking temporarily with his, weaving together in a brief handhold. Barry feels a single fingertip scratch over his shoulder – one final word before the man is gone for good.

 _Thanks_.

The man seals it with a kiss over the same spot, lips sucking what might turn out to be a purple mark.

Barry hopes it will.

Footsteps fade toward the door. The man knocks twice. Barry can't see the door open, but it wouldn't matter. Like before, no light enters the room. The man walks out, the door shuts, and Barry is left to wait for someone to come in and un-cuff him.

Barry sighs. It's a content sigh, a satisfied sigh.

But it's sad as well.

This isn't what he expected. What he shared with that man wasn't anonymous sex. It was something more. It was communication, caring, acceptance, mutual attraction.

It isn't what he expected, but it's what he wanted.

And now, it's over.

He can't sulk over that. He got the tension out of his system, freed up his chakras so he can attack that treadmill in the morning and prevail. He can go back to business as usual, go back to being The Flash and putting everyone else's needs above his own.

He can return to his life as a superhero, and everything will be fine.

* * *

Barry's screwed.

Undoubtedly, undeniably screwed.

He can't stop pining, can't stop thinking about that man.

Barry spent most of an hour ritualistically washing his lover away.

After the handlers returned to the room and removed the cuffs, they led him back to the bathroom. Barry locked the door behind him and stared in the mirror. He indeed had marks littering his skin - some hickeys, raised and purple, a few nail indents, and one distinct bite mark on the juncture of his shoulder, the perfect shape of his partner's mouth. But, with his eyes glued to it, hand raising to run his fingers over it, the indents and grooves branded in his flesh, his regenerating cells washed the bruises away.

Barry came to the conclusion later on that had he been able to race to the crime lab, he could have gotten an impression of the bite. Realistically, he probably wouldn't have made it in time, but had he had his phone on him, he could have taken a picture of the bite. Then, at the lab, he could have enlarged it, taken measurements, run it through the system. It wouldn't have been ideal, but it could have given him some clue to the identity of the man he had just spent the night with.

Lying in bed, alone, he remembered that that's what he didn't want.

Anonymous. No strings attached. One night only.

Those were the selling points. He had made them his mantra. At roughly two o'clock in the morning, he decided he'd get what sleep he could, and when he woke up, he'd start fresh. He'd forget about the man, and as for the bordello…Nikola Tesla would never walk through its doors again.

Barry thought that returning to S.T.A.R. Labs and resuming his training with gusto would help him forget, but it hasn't. He could deny it till the end of time, but that man got to him, and not just inside his head. Somehow, Barry has imprinted his vocal signature into the Speed Force as well. Every time Barry hits a new top speed, he thinks of him. He feels him. He hears that impassioned grunt of, " _Yes_."

He loses control.

After Barry wipes out on the treadmill for the eighteenth time, he goes with a different tactic, disassociating himself from the memory of that night by surrounding himself with other things he wants but can't have.

Hanging out with Iris and Eddie, watching them fawn over each other – Barry thought for certain that would snap him out of it. Seeing Felicity again, especially dressed in the skimpy black number she wore to Trivia Night at Jitters, should have taken Barry's mind off _him_ irrevocably.

It didn't. Even with Felicity clinging to his side, the soft underside of her arm pressed to his as she held his hand, the smell of her floral, distinctly feminine perfume filling his nose with every breath, the two of them acting like flirty _more than friends_ , it made Barry need _him_ more. Because in the end, regardless of how things go between Barry and Felicity, Felicity belongs with Oliver. If Barry and Felicity started seeing one another, it would only be a mid-game affair.

Oliver and Felicity are the finale.

Barry doesn't want to be a rebound. He wants something of his own.

Barry is ruined – so filled with need for a man he's never even seen that he's wound tighter than before. He shouldn't have spoken. That bastard – _God!_ Barry wishes he could shove it aside, but he can't. It creeps out of hiding and echoes in his dreams. But worse, it bombards his waking thoughts when he least expects it.

Now Barry understands why talking was forbidden.

That one word gives Barry hope. He's obsessed with it. He needs to find its owner.

Barry knows that's a ridiculous notion. How in hell is he supposed to find someone based on one word alone? A word only _he_ heard? It's not like anyone else can hear it, fish it out of his brain and record it. Is he supposed to go up to every man in Starling City and ask them to utter the word _Yes_ as if they were saying it during sex?

What an awkward conversation that would be. Besides, the potential harassment charges would not speak well for him.

And what if his mystery lover isn't from Starling City? He could be from anywhere in the world, with enough money to buy himself plenty of security, keeping himself well-hidden from heartsick lovers. That would definitely make tracking him down difficult.

Maybe he can get Cisco to help him. Or Felicity. Maybe they can develop a program that could isolate individual males within a certain parameter and filter down their speech to that one word, with a subroutine to isolate a particular inflection.

Uh, no. That would be an even more awkward conversation. Felicity would be down to do it. She loves a challenge. But that level of privacy invasion is highly immoral.

Barry shakes his head, his neck cracking at whiplash-inducing speeds. Of all the times to be contemplating this, right now, when he's on the trail of a criminal – a potentially armed and dangerous one - is not the appropriate time. Not when his city, and one of the most important people in his life, needs him.

He slows a hair, but the Speed Force builds autonomously.

 _Run_.

He hears it in his head.

 _Run_.

He feels it in his bones. He eliminates every other thought but where he needs to go and how he needs to get there, and lets the Speed Force take over, pushing him faster and farther with each step. When his foot hits the ground, it's a millisecond quicker than the last, until he's a blurring streak of red lightning, more energy than human.

Barry follows the high-pitched whine of sirens, flashing red, white, and blue lights, police cars when they whiz by. He hears a familiar voice yell, "Snart!" from several blocks away and hones in on it, targeting it like a beacon.

When Barry arrives on the scene, the black asphalt is covered in ice. Several cars have already slid across it and collided. Barry sees Joe chase after a man wearing a thick, grey coat and blue-lens glasses inside the lobby of a theater, his service gun raised. Barry follows, still half a city block behind. Voices scream, people scatter, and Barry has to maneuver fast to avoid plowing them down. He reaches the lobby as the man in the glasses turns, an intimidating weapon pointed Joe's way, barrel on him dead center. Barry doesn't think, he just acts, leaping to shove Joe out of the way right as the criminal fires. The blast misses Joe, but nails Barry in the side. He's thrown back a few feet, hitting the ground hard.

"You okay?" Joe yells from across the lobby, watching Barry roll to a sitting position, his hands clutching his side.

Barry groans through his teeth, the intense cold eating through his suit and into his flesh.

"Ngh! It burns!" Barry exclaims, the icy shot doing a highly effective job at incapacitating him. Barry wants to curl up into a ball, cover his wound with his hands, and wait for the pain to subside, but he knows he can't sit still until his body defrosts. He has to move. He has to draw fire away from Joe and everyone else. He has to get the villain with the cold gun to chase him. It's the middle of the afternoon; there are too many people in the vicinity, stuck in the level above, having fled there when the shooting started. Too many innocent lives at stake. Barry has to keep them safe.

Frostbitten flank screaming, Barry jumps to his feet and takes off, zooming up the stairs to the upper level, hoping the criminal will give chase. If not, he hopes to get the man's eyes on him, keep him occupied long enough for the police to evacuate the area.

It seems to work. Amused by his new adversary with the super speed, the man searches him out, eager to try his hand at shooting a moving target.

" _Yes_!" He laughs cruelly, gun raised. "Time for a test run!"

But Barry's not running. He's stopped in his tracks, the only thing racing – his heart.

That voice. It's _his_ voice. That first _yes_ clinched it.

Barry ducks behind a pole to catch his breath, but he's unable. That voice has taken it. That voice, combined with the memory of a hundred tender touches, a dozen fevered kisses, bodies pressed in a passionate embrace, the two of them writhing together, enjoying one another. That ball of lightning reforms in Barry's stomach, threatening to scour his insides with fire and then blast him to a million pieces.

This is the man who made Barry feel human again for the first time since he'd taken on the mantle of The Flash.

Leonard Snart. Barry had foiled his attempt at stealing the Kahndaq Dynasty Diamond days earlier. He's corrupt, a thief, and from the looks of it, he's not above killing.

He barely missed killing Joe, and now he's trying to kill him.

Barry's insides deliquesce, the Speed Force in his body urging him to run but his brain functions shut down, bringing his body to a grinding halt.

"No," Barry groans, punching the pole with his fist till the skin on his knuckles splits and bleeds. "No… _fuck fuck fuck FUCK_!"


End file.
